


Curve

by Bond_Girl



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: First Time, M/M, One of My Favorites, Trainwreck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-04 09:44:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bond_Girl/pseuds/Bond_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Chuck and Nate's relationship is a study in learning curves and vicious circles.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curve

**Author's Note:**

> _• thanks to Peri for cheerleading and beta work_  
> • lyrics from Steam by Peter Gabriel  
> • written for the Porn Battle VII, prompt 'curve', originally posted [[here](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/394717.html?thread=22193629#t22716381)]

##### you know your straight line from a curve --- you've got a lot of nerve --- but I know you.

~

 

Chuck was all sharp angles; his cheekbones cut glass, his words cut to the bone. He fucked like no tomorrow, like he was forever driving away from the wreck of their precocious lives and never looking back at the roadkill. Still, he was totally blind to the obvious – his trajectory was a circle. Nate knew that because he rode shotgun, other people blurring into forgettable bodies on the big brass Bass bed.

Nate was all lean curves; a pouty mouth for a hundred flavors of silence, a face to launch a thousand little hearts into a dating frenzy. He fucked dirty and he bent, a lithe arc of obscene want and beautiful muscle, but he wouldn't break. Chuck knew that because so many times, he'd killed himself trying, the heels of his palms pressing their rough-red handprints into the unyielding small of Nate's back.

They first made out when they were fourteen and Chuck's curious hand pretended to mistake Nate's virginal lap for that of his tutor's; they fucked since they were fifteen and stir crazy in the stifling heat of the Hamptons and parental discord; they did nothing but kiss, slow and open-mouthed, on the eve of Chuck's sweet sixteen. When Chuck's head turned with something new – _be mine?_ – of a different thirst than his appetite for an absolute possession, then Nate's confused and pink-bruised lips turned away, denying all feeling. The power balance between them hadn't been the same ever since.

One night, Nate left Blair on a Manhattan sidewalk and did what he did best, twisted out of a too tight grasp. That night, Chuck picked her up and gave her a ride of their lives in his limousine. Who knew Nate's heart was secretly sewn into her dainty sleeve. Who knew Chuck had such a taste for best friends who weren't better as lovers.

One embarrassingly public scene later and both of them were fucking apart with a death wish.

A vertical, headlong line to the rock bottom for Chuck. A vicious downward spiral to the wrong side of the tracks for Nate. None paved with good intentions, rather with Asian hookers or titled Machiavellian older women; neither led to hell. Loneliness is a limbo, ask the Lonely Boy.

Then, Chuck's father died. Hell, teenage rebellion, and cheap poetry suddenly became a waste of time.

One late night but not a day too late, Nate knocked on Chuck's door and kissed him first, tasting of other people, weed and guilt. Grief, loneliness, venom – all swiped away with tongue and whisper – _always have, always will_. Chuck didn't shove him to sprawl on the couch but laid Nate out nice on the big bed, for the first time and for a change. It was simple, like one plus one, like the most basic math.

One plus one equaled Nate bucking into Chuck's two fingers like he was starved. Three counted the short, stabbing pushes it took to hurry an aching cock into a yielding hole. Nate was on his fours, the violently trembling thighs spread wide and the groans getting torn out of him, ragged and low and like coming home together. Five minutes later Nate was getting undone in their sweat and his own come, and Chuck was losing count to his blessings.

A full turn of a clock hand later, Nate muttered the unavoidable about whatshername Vanessa who _could not possibly know_; his mouth was hot along the back of Chuck's neck in an unspoken apology. A promise of stolen tomorrows in the stopped elevators and on the sticky leather seats of a stretch car. A familiar, predictable pattern as they had no more control over their nature as they'd have over some law of mathematics. Good thing they only fucked once. Twice would have turned this confession into a revelation.

"As if, Nathaniel," Chuck turned over to stare into the infinity of the ceiling and wrapped his arm around the sated heap of limbs and denial that belonged to him, once again. He let Nate escape into a sleep as he listened to the rush of blood in his ears. To how they were falling upwards, headfirst, spiraling towards the crush and burn.

The sun would arc up over the eternal New York skyline and fall inevitably to rise again, following the curve of their attraction.


End file.
